


This Is Not The End

by KalinaAnn



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, M/M, Mutilation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-12 23:18:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10501509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KalinaAnn/pseuds/KalinaAnn
Summary: He can’t go back to Overwatch, not with members being picked off one by one. Death seems to follow Jack wherever he may go, mocking his inability to protect everyone. It’s the harsh truth Ana seems to prod at, ever so gently, since the recall. But, he can’t lead destruction straight to them. Ana must know that as well.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I love McCree, I promise.

_ THEN _

 

When Jesse was a young child, the dark used to frighten him.

In the alleyway behind one of the local bars,  the dark doesn’t bother him too much. Mind sitting at the bottom of the half empty bottle hanging to his side, muddled and buzzed. He’s still sober enough to be honest with himself; Overwatch, Blackwatch, they were bullets dodged. The destruction of the Swiss base troubles him, but not as much as the idea of his mentor’s body being pulled from the aftermath.

Jesse’s mentor - who he sided against when it mattered most.

The guilt writhes in his stomach, cold and unforgiving. It prompts him into taking another hard swig from the bottle. Even weeks after the UN declared the explosion at the Swiss base an accident, the images of the broken base flickering across the TV screen above the liquor shelf lingers in the back of his mind. Nagging him. Swallowing down the rest of the bottle, he waits until the sharp warmth of his drink replaces the cold guilt in his stomach.

Overwatch disbanded and Blackwatch buried like a dirty secret. Evidently, it didn’t matter whether he had stayed or not. Jesse dodged a couple bullets the day he left.

The shadows in his peripheral vision lick towards the flickering light above him, crawling towards his boots. Head tucked between his spread knees, Jesse pays no mind to it, assuming it must be someone trying to get in through the back entrance of the bar instead of the crowded front entrance. Perhaps if the alcohol hadn’t been pumping so hard through his veins, he would have noticed the lack of footsteps following the shadow of the figure approaching him. He’s toeing the border between coherent and absolutely  _ smashed _ when a gauntlet clad fist lifts him from the scruff of his shirt, hauling him off his feet.

A choked noise escapes his throat as he’s pushed hard against the wall, his feet hovering a couple inches from the ground. Jesse doesn’t even get a good look at the assailant as his initial reaction is to draw Peacekeeper and fire into the white face of the figure lifting him. There’s no way he could miss, even intoxicated with the edges of his vision wavering. 

And yet, he’s still pinned up against the brick wall. Eyes focusing now, he could see what he thought to be a pale face is instead a mask, birdlike and predatory. Cracked in the center of the forehead where the bullet had pierced it. The grip on his collar tightens, pulling Jesse from the wall before shoving him back emphatically.

“Nice shot.” The voice that’s drawn from behind the mask rumbles from deep within the cloaked figure’s chest - raspy, as if a pack of cigarettes are burning within his chest. Yet, Jesse could recognize that voice anywhere.

It’s the same voice that had led him for the past nine years. The voice that commanded him, sometimes praised him; tainted with something more sinister.

“So this is where my second in command ran off to.” The mask tilts to the side, eyeing the backdoor of the bar. Jesse will be the first to admit he’s been hanging around a pisshole of a place. “We could have used your kind of eye,  _ McCree. _ ” Each sentence punctuated with malicious intent, voice like an omen of something worse to come.

The accusation is red hot in the man’s voice, laced with something else when he utters Jesse’s old position in Blackwatch. The underlying hurt - _ betrayal _ \- in Reyes’ voice makes him sound much calmer. The grip on Jesse’s shirt says otherwise. Jesse suddenly remembers he has a voice of his own, though forcing words from his dry mouth is like pulling fingernails one by one.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” Jesse finally says, voice steady with false bravado.

“Didn’t take.”

But then again, can Jesse truly say he’s surprised? The UN ruled the explosion an accident to cover their tracks and put Reyes’ name to rest. He had firsthand knowledge of his commander’s agenda from day one. Reyes’ standing before him like the personification of death itself is only a taste of what’s lying beneath the surface.

Jesse goes slack in Reyes’ grip, looking evenly into the eyes of the mask, where Reyes’ is no doubt looking back. He can’t tell if it’s the alcohol or anxiety boiling beneath his skin.

“You here to dish out punishment?” Jesse finally asks, chin dropping towards his collar as he accepts his sentence. “Cleaning up after the deserters?” He wasn’t the only one to jump ship when Blackwatch operatives began to catch wind of something unpleasant coming their way.

“No,” Reyes rasps out, smoke escaping from the bottom of the mask.  “No. You’re going to tell me where Morrison is.”

“Morrison?” Jesse repeats, lifting his head to look back up at the mask, surprise clear in his brown eyes. “Morrison is dead.”

Pause. Jesse can hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

“You’re protecting him,” Reyes concludes with a sharp edge in his voice.

“No! No, the UN announced the both of you dead weeks ago. Ain’t got a clue. Honest.”

“ _ Think, McCree,”  _ Reyes’ voice lowering, taking on an even more dangerous edge if possible.

“Strike Comman-” before Jesse can finish the thought, a jet black shotgun materializes from the smoke billowing around Reyes, fitting comfortably in the dead man’s free hand. It’s pressed to the flesh beneath Jesse’s elbow before he can process what is happening. 

When Reyes’ pulls the trigger, Jesse registers the sound before the pain. The shot cracking through the air like a firework and momentarily deafening him before he hears the sound of flesh hitting damp pavement with a wet _slap._ The pain so acute and sudden he doesn’t feel it until he looks down to see the bottom half of his arm laying there, hand still clutching Peacekeeper in it’s grip. As if it had never been a part of him in the first place.

Mouth opening uselessly, Jesse doesn’t know if he’s going to vomit or scream. The hand keeping him up off the ground drops him to his feet where he falls to his knees, Reyes’ following after.

Reyes’ kneels there, examining the stump of Jesse’s arm like a parent examining their child’s scraped knee. His hand comes around to squeeze the end, effectively staunching some of the blood flowing freely as the nails of his gauntlet bite painfully into the intact skin. Bone white sticking out from the end of the tattered stump, wet strips of flesh still clinging helplessly. The blood continues to pump steadily over Reyes’ hands, making his fingers slick. Bright red, even in the dark under the flickering light.

There’s a lack of blood in Jesse’s face when he finally looks up at Reyes. Horror and pain stricken across his features as he forces himself to keep his eyes steady.

“Now, let’s try that again,” Reyes says. “If you were Morrison and the world thought you were dead, where would you hide?” 

“I don’t know!” Jesse nearly sobs. “ I don’t know.” The shotgun comes up to Jesse’s face and his breath quickens, heart pounding so hard in his chest if Reyes didn’t have an iron grip around the limb he would have bled out.

“Away!” Jesse chokes out when cold metal kisses his temple. “Away. Far, far, far,  _ far, _ away. Indiana? Maybe to see his family I don’t know, I’d go far away.” He’s beginning to ramble now, fear shaking him to his core but the answer seems to appease Reyes as the dead man seems lost in his own head for the moment.

“Yes,” Reyes rasps quietly, mostly to himself as he gets up to his feet. “Good. That’s good.” 

Jesse holds the stump of his arm to his chest, trying to replace the pressure and stop the bleeding. Backing up into the wall, he watches as Reyes walks away down the alleyway. Turning slightly, Reyes seems to suddenly remember he left Jesse sitting there bleeding.

“You can try to shoot me in the back, or you can keep pressure on that arm,” he calls back with an amused laugh. Both he and Jesse know he won’t be able to make the shot with his right hand - he’s more likely to bleed out trying. 

It’s not a permanent goodbye. Reyes seems to be bad at those. Not even death could hold him long enough. He’ll be back to finish the job.

Jesse had been afraid of the dark as a child, yet at the age of 27 he truly learned to fear what lurked in the shadows.

* * *

 

_NOW._

 

Gloved fingers run their tips over the faded photograph, down the lighter fold marks that warp the image ever so slightly. It’s a motion Jack finds himself doing absently each night, sitting in his single loveseat with new bandages wrapped around his middle. Glancing at his jacket, a little roughed up but the red  _ 76 _ still visible, he vaguely wonders if he’s better off leaving the photograph behind when he leaves. There’s a tear in the front where the breast pocket sits on the inside of the jacket. Just like him, he’s not so sure the photograph will survive another misstep.

The sound of footsteps gently shakes him from his thoughts, though he doesn’t look up from the photograph. Setting it down next to his jacket, he takes the warm cup from Ana, sipping it before setting it down. He probably won’t touch it again tonight.

Ana sits across from him, taking a sip of her own steaming cup as she fixes him with a certain look. One leg crossed over the other, elbow resting on her freehand. It’s casual enough that there’s hardly any insistence to it. No words need to be passed between the two of them.

Shouldn’t this be enough? It had just been he and himself for such an agonizingly long time - finding out Ana stilled lived was like ripping a piece of his old self out from the past. It’s not perfect; he doubts it ever will be again. There’s still the pain that follows finding out Ana kept her existence from him for so long. Strained as it is with her, he finds himself fearing solitude less. The vulnerability that comes with sinking too deep into his thoughts is nearly nonexistent on a good night. 

Leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, he gives her a small shake of his head. A hand coming up to scrub down his tired face before he pulls away from her gaze.

“Not yet,” Jack answers her silent request.

“Playing hero has lost its charm, I see.” The teacup still held in front of her mouth, though Jack can hear her clearly. She takes a small sip before continuing. “Are you not ready for the public eye again?” 

“It lost it’s charm a long time ago,” he fixes her a look of his own. “I’m not a young man anymore, Ana.” 

“Is that so important?”

It’s not, but Jack finds himself shaking his head anyway, disregarding the question. “It didn’t work the first time. What makes them think it’ll work this time around?” It’s a hollow, flawed argument, but the both of them know the topic Jack is avoiding. The line he’s teetering on as to why he belongs in the backlines. After all, vigilante work is no more legal than working with Overwatch with the Petras act in place.

He can’t go back to Overwatch, not with members being picked off one by one. Death seems to follow Jack wherever he may go, mocking his inability to protect everyone. It’s the harsh truth Ana seems to prod at, ever so gently, since the recall. But, he can’t lead destruction straight to them. Ana  _ must _ know that as well.

Or perhaps  _ he’s _ the problem. His inability to face Gabriel in a constant feud with his responsibility to deliver justice unto their old friend.

Looking up at her, Jack gives Ana a humourless smile before speaking once more. “Why don’t you go instead?” She always did seem to have a knack for keeping her loved ones alive, despite its costs.

Ana laughs at that softly, lacking the same humour Jack’s smile doesn’t hold. “Oh Jack, I’ve been dead to the world much longer than you. If I’m missed, I have not seen the signs.” Though she doesn’t say it, it hangs in the air between them;  _ your war isn’t mine to fight.  _ They’re Jack’s words - repeating them would only be rubbing salt into old wounds.

Getting up from her seat she takes Jack’s still full cup, placing it within her empty one. She stops in front of him for a moment. She doesn’t tell him to think on it, she’s made her stand on the subject quite clear.

“Keeping a watchful eye never hurt anyone.” She taps her index finger to her eyepatch.

* * *

 

The shadows around him seem to melt into his form - sometimes they trick even him into thinking he’s become one with them. It’s become a little too easy these nights. Sometimes, without a solid form, he loses his sense of self. It can be frightening, but there’s a part in his mind egging him on, telling him to let go. An age old grudge is the only thing keeping him whole. Each time his path crosses with the vigilante, it fans the fires of his desire for revenge hotter and hotter. Gabriel is running on fumes.

But then again, so is Jack.

That much is clear with each passing fight. How many years has this dragged on? Time had become meaningless to Gabriel up until recently.

A black mist hidden in the night, he moves effortlessly through the brick streets to where one of the Talon operatives had last seen the vigilante. The moonlight seems to pass right through him, making it harder for him to be detected. Paying no mind to the Overwatch escorts - he doesn’t recognize any of them from his days, they can be dealt with after if there’s time to spare.

It takes an alarming amount of effort for Gabriel to reform himself, his head pounding and chest pulsing as he touches solid ground once more. Nails digging into the grass, he inhales heavily before exhaling a cloud of smoke that momentarily blurs his vision. Up off his knees now, he feels what he  _ knows _ to be a pulse rifle press between shoulderblades. 

Gabriel laughs, dark and ominous. His voice holding no trace of the pain he felt moments before despite the throbbing in his head. Of course Jack had been waiting for him. Gabriel wouldn’t have expected anything less from the man who ripped position of Strike Commander out from under him.

“So,” Jack starts, pressing the rifle harder into the black coat. “At this range, you think unloading a full clip will actually kill you?”

“We’ll just have to find out, won’t we?” Gabriel’s voice holds a hint of a smile before he’s swinging himself around, coat fluttering behind him in the cold night air as he levels a hellfire shotgun at his old friend.

They look the other over for the moment, and though they both wear masks, it’s the closest thing to eye contact they’ll have. Gabriel can picture it clear as day; Jack’s brows narrowed above sky blue eyes. He wants to tear that mask away and force him to look at the monster he created.

Tension in the air seems to snap abruptly as Jack pulls the trigger of his pulse rifle first, narrowly missing Gabriel’s face as the dead man easily side steps the blast. A shot from the hellfire shotguns rattles Jack’s vision as it fires right next to his ear, but he’s undeterred. Rolling away to gather his bearings before steadying his aim. The shot should have shattered Gabriel’s kneecaps had he not been anticipating it.

With every barrage of bullets dodged, Gabriel’s body screams at him to dissipate. It’ll be much easier to avoid the shots as a wraith, but with the lack of form comes the risk of losing himself forever. Gabriel can’t trust something as unpredictable as time to take an old soldier like Jack. It’s a job that has to be done by his own hand.

Gabriel would tear Jack away from time’s cruel grasp if it meant killing the man himself. 

Shouting in the distance makes the both of them pause. It’s an unspoken agreement that has the both of them dropping their guns, the hellfire shotguns fading into smoke the moment they hit the grass.

“Old age catching up to you?” Gabriel taunts, steadying his breath.

Jack holds his snide response in favouring of throwing the first punch, catching Gabriel in the collar before his fist is grabbed, gauntlet clad fingers covering his own painfully as they grip through his gloves. His chest pulled closer to Gabriel’s, mask to mask, the breath is knocked out of him when the dead man delivers a blow to his ribs. Again and again.

Jack would have nearly gone down, had he not caught the moment of weakness in Gabriel’s punches. Hardly there, the assault falters when Jack goes limp for a scant moment. It’s a moment long enough for Jack to steel himself before bringing his knee up hard into Gabriel’s stomach.

Air forcibly pushed from Gabriel’s lungs, he scarcely has a second to recover before he feels hands grab the sides of his hood, yanking his face down to meet the same fate. Mask cracking audibly against Jack’s knee, part of it falls to the ground in front of Gabriel as he falls to his knees before Jack.

Gunfire rings through the air in the distance. Every nerve in Jack’s body compels him to abandon Gabriel and fend off the Talon operatives. But he doesn’t - he holds his ground, lifting his pulse rifle and aiming it to the top of Gabriel’s head. He’ll have to hold faith that this younger generation of heroes can hold their own.

“Call them off,” Jack orders.

Gabriel shakes his head. “They don’t follow my orders.”

The following gunfire twists in Jack’s stomach but he ignores it. Internally, he’s screaming at himself to pull the trigger, end this age old conflict that’s been haunting him -  _ the two of them _ \- for much too long. 

But he falters, just as Gabriel had. The hesitation is hardly there, but it’s still tangible enough. More than enough for Gabriel to notice, and he snags it with an iron fist.

“Look at me,” Gabriel insists softly at first, lifting his head to look up at Jack with half the mask obscuring his face. Smoke releases freely from the missing portion now, escaping from his mouth and the gapes in his cheek that expose just a bit of white.

“Look me in the eyes when you kill me,  _ Morrison, _ ” Gabriel orders with a harsh edge now, tearing the rest of the mask away to expose his face. Sunken eyes, rotting flesh. Smoke seeps from the tears littered across his face, bits of flesh pulled taut across the gaping holes in certain spots.

Yet, the only thing Jack notices is Gabriel’s eyes. They’re still the same dark brown, unmarred by death. His breath catches in his throat, chest clenching painfully as he grits his teeth. The horror follows clumsily after, and with it, the cold feeling of guilt.

“Is this the face you left behind?” Gabriel asks quietly. Jack doesn’t lower his pulse rifle, but his finger is nowhere near the trigger.

“I couldn’t protect you,” Jack finally admits, voice wavering. He looks as if he’s going to say something more, when a stray shot rings through the air. 

Eyes widening behind his visor, he spins around, firing off at the nearest Talon operative. They go down, but there’s many more and Jack has no choice other than to run, sparing once last glance back at Gabriel.

“No!” Gabriel growls, back on his feet once more. The operatives stop in their tracks, all except for one.

The unfortunate operative is lifted off the ground by their face, talons from Gabriel’s gauntlet biting into their skin before the back of their head is slammed into the ground. Waiting until he feels the pop of the operatives skull beneath his hand, Gabriel finally releases the limp body.

“The Soldier is mine.” The sight of Gabriel’s exposed face has a couple of the Talon operatives tripping over their own feet in their attempt to back off. 

Jack hadn’t gone far - Gabriel could still sense him, though he wish he couldn’t. It’s the same feeling he gets when walking through a war stricken battlefield, corpses strewn about. The smell of death, the tangible pull of drifting souls waiting to be reaped. It’s rotten and sweet all at once.

Usually, the anticipation would send electricity zipping down his spine. It’s an incredibly powerful feeling that makes Gabriel feel as if he could smoke right through his skin and envelope the sky. Effortlessly blackout the sun. However, on this night it just makes it harder for him to stay solid - as if he could feel his consciousness being ripped from his body the closer he got to Jack. 

Jack, who he finds not too far off in an abandoned warehouse along the shore. 

No doubt does Jack hear Gabriel coming, but he makes no attempt to move from his spot. Sitting with his back against the wall in a pool of bright yellow light. Visor on the ground next to him, light reflecting a little bit off of red. Gabriel can see the full extent of what the years gone by have done to his old friend.

The top of his jacket is unzipped, perhaps to allow easier breathing as his chest heaves, up and down. Gabriel can almost taste his sickly sweet breath from where he’s standing. The light does nothing to staunch the reopened wound. 

“Get up on your feet,” Gabriel says, though Jack isn’t sure at this point if it’s a command or a request. The tone of his voice too uncertain.

The waves not too far off splash audibly against the shore as Gabriel watches Jack’s sad attempt at pulling himself up from the dulling light. The spot where his lower back is pressed against the wall grows darker; smell of copper thick in the air. He recognizes the wound, inflicted by his very own hand years ago in Egypt. 

“Get up,” he repeats once more, voice rough with uncertainty. “I’m not going to kill you while you’re already sitting in your own blood.” Jack gives a weak laugh at that, the sound surprising Gabriel.

“What’s so funny, Morrison?”

“That’s really civil of you, Gabe,” Jack answers with an irritating smile. Gabriel grunts. It’s irritating because it’s genuine.

“I’m not going to ask you again.” It’s hardly a threat despite Gabriel trying to keep that vicious edge to his voice. Instead, it comes out sounding exhausted. Jack can relate.

With a tired sigh, Jack shakes his head. It’s not happening, and the notion of  _ the end _ sparks something red hot within Gabriel. The smoke around him appears to become more dense, clouding and obscuring his form as his brows narrow down at Jack, teeth visibly clenched through the tears in the side of his face. 

Swiping a clawed hand towards Jack’s collar, Gabriel looks as if he’s ready to explode when his hand passes through the man harmlessly, surprising them both enough to cause them to pause. The two of them stare at the misty hand, Gabriel looking as if it had offended in some way. Dread creeping onto his face as he realizes their time has run out.

That smile from Jack again, though this time, more pained. Almost apologetic.

“Who comes to claim the Reaper when it’s his turn to taste death?” Jack wonders aloud with a gentle air of curiosity around the question.

Gabriel shakes his head, claw covers his face for the moment as he exhales heavily, puffing out smoke before it returns to his lungs.

“I’ve tasted death once before. Death has no hold on me.”

“Then finish me off.” It’s hardly a challenge when the two of the already know the outcome.

It’s unfair. The reality of it bites through Gabriel’s flesh like a searing hot knife through butter. It’s what drives him to try to form his hellfire shotguns, the smoke around him clouding around his hands, yet refusing to form into anything other than  _ useless. _ Again, and again, he tries. Quietly, Jack watches. Perhaps counting the minutes that tick by as Gabriel’s frustration builds helplessly. 

In the end, Gabriel falls to his knees. Impact hardly making a sound on the hard concrete floor. Translucent hands before him, he refuses to look up at Jack. Won’t dare to face the man now.

“This isn’t the end I wanted for us,” Gabriel utters, mostly to himself as Jack seems to disregard the confession. “This war was mine to finish.  _ You _ were mine to finish off.”

Instead, he’s surprised to find a gloved hand reaching out from the dimming light, hovering just over his own. It’s enough to give off the illusion of their hands touching. He gives a raspy, bark of a laugh that sounds like shattered glass on gravel, because leave it to Jack fucking Morrison to try to comfort him after an attempt on his life.

Time changes many things, but apparently many things stay the same. 

“Maybe we can settle this on the other side, huh?”

Gabriel offers a small, humourless laugh as the dimming light finally gives out. When he finally looks up from their hands, there’s a slight smile on Jack’s lip; just a twitch of his lips as the light in his eyes fades. Jack’s hand passing through his own before dropping to the concrete. The ghost of Gabriel’s hand tries to grasp Jack’s involuntarily as it falls.

“Wherever I’m going, it won’t be where you are,” Gabriel whispers as smoke is blown into the night. 

**Author's Note:**

> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/0MNIC)


End file.
